


The Storm

by Arcwin



Series: Fae [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Creepy, Epilogue, Fae Magic, Fae Sherlock, M/M, Psychological Horror, Scottish Highlands, Scottish John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:41:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21763918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcwin/pseuds/Arcwin
Summary: Epilogue to "The Wood"It's been nearly a year, and John has found that life after being trapped in the Fae world is...tough.Sherlock's noticed, too...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Fae [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1568536
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

_The woods are lovely,_

_Dark and deep._

_But I have promises to keep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep._

_-Robert Frost_

A heavy, warm paw gently touched John’s cheek, testing. When there was no answer aside from a thick, nasally sigh, the paw moved to his nose. It pressed, this time more insistent. Beneath the covers, John shifted and grunted in his sleep. Finally, Mycroft lost his short-lived patience and began pushing his claws forward until they just started digging into his owner’s nostril, waking him immediately. His ice blue eyes popped open and stared daggers at the cat.

“Mycroft, can ye nae?” he asked, voice harsh with sleep. 

The cat pushed his face into John’s, bumping his forehead against the man. “Mrow?” he replied too loudly, making John wince. 

“Tay lood, moggie.” 

Mycroft ignored him, meowing even louder as he turned circles on his chest. 

“Oof. Fatty,” John complained, as the cat laid directly on his lower abdomen. “Dornt settle, Mycroft. Ah hae tae pee!” But Mycroft was already asleep, snoring loudly. 

Outside, the branches of the mulberry bush next to the window rattled against the pane, scratching the glass. The wind whipped across the fallow field between John’s house and the forest, blowing the tall grasses nearly horizontal with each gust. John stared, unblinking, eyes not seeing. At the edge of the forest, a dark shape was moving just inside the shadow of the trees. A rabbit, perhaps. No, a deer. Too large to be a rabbit. 

John finally blinked, his eyes burning from the dry, cold winter air, and the shadow was gone. His bladder screamed beneath the enormous cat on his lap, begging for relief. 

“Mycroft,” he called, beginning to shift out from under his pet. The cat rolled over, exposing his belly, and purred loudly. Without thinking, John reached over and ran his fingers through the fluffy undercoat, massaging lightly. Mycroft purred louder, squirming around on John’s lap until he lost his patience and rolled in on himself, clutching the weathered hand against his belly and kicking the underside.

“Whoa, laddie!” John exclaimed, pulling his stinging hand away. The cat rolled over onto his stomach and looked up at John with lazy, bored eyes. Sighing, John shoved Mycroft to one side and swung his legs over, bracing for the cold winter air. He could feel the chill in the floorboards even through the thick, woolen socks he bought from the market last year. After a quick shuffle to the toilet, he wrapped one of his best afghans around his shoulders and began his morning routine.

Thirty minutes later, John pulled on his boots. Left first, then right, as it always had been. He paused, hands hovering over the laces of his left boot. _Left first, then right_. 

Or was it right first, then left? 

He blinked at his hands. They looked old, skin wrinkled and veins prominent. The tips of his fingers were calloused and worn, nails grubby, short. 

They _trembled_.

He blinked again, then resumed tying his boots before he could question it any more. Throwing his hunting knife into his pocket, he steeled himself and pulled open the heavy wooden door. 

Wind immediately whipped into the cabin, pulling the door open further than he wanted. The flames in the hearth danced, parts of them dying down while others grew, invigorated. Yanking hard on the handle, he fought the wind and slammed the door shut, saving the fire and heat in the home before the winter air stole them both. Pulling his coat collar up, he trudged quickly through the accumulated snow over to his truck, praying that it would start despite the temperature. It only took four attempts before the engine finally turned over, grumbling just as loudly about the weather as John was. He tapped on the glass at the fuel gauge, which had stopped working sometime in the past month, after his last trip into town. For a moment, he considered stopping at the mechanic, then shook his head and turned down the gravel road that led into town.

* * *

John wasn’t the only person who decided that this, the coldest day they had seen this season, was the best time to stock up on supplies. Nearly everyone he had ever met was at the market, bundled up so tightly he could barely tell who was who. He had worn his overcoat and thick knit hat, but he stood out like a sore thumb with his lack of winter gear. A few villagers gave him strange looks, but he ignored them. He was used to it by now, ever since he came _back_. People were uneasy. He didn’t mind.

Bumping against an older woman as he grabbed a new tin of steel cut oats, he shivered, a chill running up his spine. “Sorry,” he murmured. She recoiled as he spoke, looking up at him with a glare, and moved on. He frowned back, watching her, then froze.

Amongst the crowd of villagers, a thin, lanky man stood with his back to John. Dark, familiar curls wrapped around the underside of his hat. The man reached for an apple, thin fingers digging into the red skin in a way that made John shudder.

He _knew_ those fingers.

He wanted to run up to the man, snatch at his shoulders and demand to know what he was doing here. _Here_! 

Feet frozen to the floor, he stood, incapable of anything, _everything_. The lights above him danced, flickering and flaunting at his retinas and threatening to blind him as he stared, unblinking, at the terrible, great man in front of him. 

When they could take it no more, he let his eyes shut, and when he opened them, the man was gone. He blinked again, uncertain of himself. It wasn’t the first time he had seen such an apparition since his return, though it was the first time it had happened out in the open. He was used to this ghostly visitor in the dead of night when he awoke, sweat slick skin sliding around in his sheets while his heart pounded out of his chest. But not here, not now. Not in this place, full to the brim and bursting with _others,_ those mortals who knew and refused to believe. Those mortals who whispered behind his back and told stories around the fire of the man who returned from the Wood. 

Pale yellow-white eyes against green-blue, sallow skin filled his vision. They stared into him, slicing like blades. His body reacted in treacherous ways as his thoughts drifted away from the market, away from the people who lied to his face with their false smiles and conspiratorial glances. 

The Wood, with it's birch, aspen, and pine trees that swayed in the wind, branches crackling as they rubbed against each other. Inky black crows, their iridescent feathers shining in the anemic winter sun, calling to each other as they took off. Air so silent and thick it felt like cotton in his ears and water in his lungs. He drifted further and further into the forest in his mind, following the whispers of an all too familiar voice as it beckoned him back.

John was nearly there, nearly at the edge of the circle of stones that called to him. He would do it, this time. He would step back into it and drown.

A firm hand closed around his elbow, startling him out of the forest and jolting him back into the noisy market. 

“Sir?” A young woman with almond shaped eyes asked, peering up at him. She was half a head shorter than him, with long straight brown hair and a comfortable smile set between soft pinked cheeks. “Are you all right?” she added as he stared at her, frowning with confusion.

John opened his mouth to speak and found his throat closing up, too dry to allow him much more than a croak. Finally, once his vision cleared entirely, he nodded and managed an, “Aye.”

She smiled again, eyes softening. “You're the farmer on the edge of town,” she said. “Mr. Watson, right?”

“John, please.”

Tucking a stand of stray hair behind her ear, the young woman nodded. “ _John_ ,” she echoed, cheeks pinking even more. “I'm Molly. It's nice to finally meet you,” she added eagerly.

“Is it?” John asked, contempt in his voice. He winced at the sound of it. It'd been a while since he'd interacted with humans. Especially female humans. Pretty ones, at that.

She was nodding at him, hand still clutching his bicep. She squeezed, the blush on her cheeks deepening. “It is.”

Shrugging out of her grip, he nodded and looked away. “Shopping tae dae afair th' st'rm,” he grumbled, eyes scanning the market for the head of dark curls he'd seen before. “Braw tae meit ye.”

Before she could reply, he walked away, forgetting his basket on the floor. 

The wind howled like an injured animal, whipping fat snowflakes through the trees as John drove home. They swirled in his headlights, accumulating on the ground so quickly the road became icy before he made it halfway to the cabin. His tires slid as he turned up the driveway, kicking the end of his truck around in a fishtail. John clutched the steering wheel as the vehicle righted itself, brakes shuddering as he stopped on the side of the house. 

Across the field he watched as the storm ravaged the forest. He wondered if the dark shadows at the base of the trees held anything resembling his nightmares. Part of him hoped it did. The other part was terrified.

* * *

Time passed.

Winter settled harshly around John's cabin, coating the fields with thick white snow drifts covered in a crunchy, icy sheen. Mycroft asked to go outside daily, forgetting that the temperature was so far below freezing that it threatened to give his nose frostbite the moment the door opened. He would stand there, staring at the white canvas for a while before looking up at John as if he expected him to fix it. John would shut the door, keeping the cat inside, and the two of them would return to their places near the fire.

Once the sun rose high enough in the sky to cut through the thick grey cloud cover, John would make the trek out to the barn. He crunched along the top of the snow banks with his hand-woven snowshoes, carrying a pail of water for the cows. He’d feed and water them, scratching them behind the ears and reminding them that winter doesn’t last forever. Then, he’d pull his jacket collar up around his ears and head back out into the freezing air, where his lungs burned and the hairs in his nose became stiff with frost. 

Today, though, his routine was interrupted. The landline that he kept in the kitchen for emergencies rang just as he was thinking about heading outside, startling both him and Mycroft so much that the cat dug his claws into John’s thighs and growled. Cursing, he scooped the cat off his lap and walked over to the phone, rubbing the punctures on his thigh. The phone rang again, and John eyed it suspiciously. No one had his number, and he liked it this way. In the decade he’d lived there, the phone hadn’t rang once. He had forgotten it existed. 

It rang again, and he considered unplugging it.

It rang once more, cutting off in the middle of the ring. 

John stared at the silent device, then returned to his armchair in front of the fire to pull on his boots. Mycroft, forgetting the disruption, jumped back up, ready to settle. 

“Nae, mycroft. Ah hae tae feed th' cows.”

He pulled on his jacket and grabbed the water pail to fill it at the sink, and the phone rang again. Mycroft squawked loudly from the living room, clearly annoyed with the interruption to his nap. John let the phone ring twice, then sighed and walked over to pick it up.

“Awrite?” he asked gruffly.

“John?” a soft, familiar voice said. It sounded far away. “John, I’m scared,” she added.

“Scared? Whit fur?” 

“I—“

The phone cut out with a crackle of electricity in the lines. John clutched the receiver, his stomach dropping to his feet. “Molly?”

The only answer he received was a clicking noise, then the soft buzz of an empty line. He frowned, staring at the wall, and listened.

Beyond the quiet, unassuming sounds of the phone was something different; _off_. It was a nearly silent whimpering just under the dead air of the line, barely noticeable. John’s scalp tingled, face burning and body like ice. 

_“It hurts, Sherlock!”_

_“Does it?”_

_“Lit me go!”_

_“Lit me go, ur I’ll leave ye.”_

Images flashed behind his eyes, blurry but well-known. A dark, candlelit cavern, roots growing down through the ceiling. Shadows along the walls, two masculine shapes entwined, rocking together in the gloom. He knew one of them was him, whimpering between whispered pleas. _Begging_. Walking the line between pleasure and pain, the line between staying forever and leaving without a look back. Never a grey area, never a moment that he thought they could make it work without him losing all of what he is. Losing all of his humanity, losing all of his soul. 

He desperately wanted it.

A dark voice whispered between his ears, “You still do.”

He blinked and shook his head, kicking such terrible thoughts from his mind. 

“Molly,” he asked again, remembering the phone in his hand. “Molly, whaur ur ye?” 

A voice of silk and fire, of venom and cotton and utterly, _horribly_ familiar slithered into his ear, overtaking his thoughts. “She is _mine_.”

Frozen in place, his thoughts emptied from his mind like water through a sieve, John gaped with his mouth hanging open. His breath trapped in his lungs, he gasped as he tried to remember how to breathe, how to speak. 

When nothing came to him and the black spots started crowding his vision, one thought surfaced above the fog. 

_Sherlock._

“Breathe, Hamish,” the creature on the phone commanded.

Sucking in as much as he could, John nearly collapsed as the cool air flooded his lungs. He braced himself against the wall with a clammy hand to keep from falling. The lights around him seemed too bright as he gasped and heaved, his heart pounding in his chest. Ice trickled down his spine, his stomach bottoming out while his ears burned. The fog stayed in his thoughts, threatening to yank them apart at the seams with violent rage. 

_“Come to me.”_

Underneath, whimpering. Whining. Gasping, shallow breaths. 

Mycroft purred on the chair next to the fire, barely lifting his head as the door slammed shut, a few stray snowflakes swirling onto the floor at the threshold before they melted.


	2. Chapter 2

_ And into the _

_ forest I go, _

_ To lose my mind _

_ and find my soul. _

_ -John Muir _

The crunching of John’s boots barely made it to his ears, the sound being whipped away by the gale around him. Above, the sky was grey with low hanging clouds filled with fat, wet snow. It fell in torrents, whirling to the ground as if leaping to its death. John pressed on, his feet bringing him closer to the Wood than he hadn’t been in for nearly a year. The bitter air bit at his skin, freezing the saliva as he licked his dry, chapped lips until they burned.

Once he entered the forest, the trees looming above him, his thoughts finally cleared enough to notice the sudden silence surrounding him. In front of him lay a familiar circle of stones, nestled in a clearing amongst the trees. The snow piled up around it, not daring to cross the boundary set by the magic within it. 

John paused at the edge of the circle.

He breathed, a measured inhale until his lungs were fit to burst, followed by a slow, purposeful exhale. Bracing against the inevitable nausea, he stepped over the stones with his eyes squeezed shut. Maybe if he didn’t look, he wouldn’t lose his breakfast. He waited for it. 

Nothing happened.

He opened his eyes and looked down at his feet. He  _ was  _ standing in the circle of stones, but nothing around him had changed. 

“Sherlock!” he shouted suddenly, startling some birds in a nearby tree to flight. “Ah ken ye can hear me, Sherlock!” Rage filled him, pressing against his insides until he knew he was red in the face. “Lit me in!”

Hopping out of the circle, he peered around into the grey, misty forest. Nothing moved, nothing changed as he stared, hoping for a sign. Some kind of signal, some kind of evidence that he wasn’t alone in the Wood. He again looked down at the ground, wondering if he had picked the wrong circle. Why wasn’t it working?

When nothing presented itself in the forest, he sighed and rubbed his hands over his tired eyes. They burned and filled with tears. He heard Molly’s soft, scared voice in his ears, and so he decided to try again. He stepped forward, again tensing as his foot touched the green grass in the middle of the stones. 

Again, nothing.

The howl of frustration that ripped from his mouth echoed around the clearing, bouncing back at him as it ricocheted off the trees. 

“Whit dae ye want frae me?!” he shouted, voice full of gravel and spite. 

Outside the shelter of the trees, the wind whipped, blowing the snow horizontal until it completely obscured everything beyond the forest. But, the air around John became still, full of the thick cottony feeling he recognized immediately and found almost comforting. 

Breath washed over the side of his neck, warm and damp. He shivered, letting his eyes slide shut.

“You  _ desire _ me,” a silky baritone murmured, barely above a whisper.

John’s fists clenched at his sides. 

“You  _ came _ for me,” the voice added.

Blood thumping through his veins, John fought the pull at his thoughts. It was as if spindly fingers had found their way into his mind and were plucking at the threads of his consciousness, pulling them apart as one untangles a knot in some twine. He shook his head, hoping to stay grounded, and reached under his coat for his bowie knife.

“ _ Hamish _ ,” the voice purred. “Behave.”

His hand dropped back down to his side, fingers pressed against the hem of his coat. It felt like a rod had been shoved into his spine, keeping him still as the voice moved around him to the other side. Again breath wafted against the sensitive skin behind his ear, making him shudder. 

“Although… your name isn’t  _ Hamish _ , not entirely.” A pause, the softest touch of questing fingers at his hairline. “Isn’t that right,  _ John _ ?” The fingers threaded into the base of his hair, twining themselves into his scruff and pulling tight.

John’s legs gave way beneath him, making him collapse to his knees. He was still within the stone circle. Outside the forest, the wind whipped into a frenzy, threatening to pull the saplings on the edge of the forest loose from their tenuous hold on the frozen earth. 

A dark figure emerged from John’s periphery, at once nebulous and yet terrifyingly real. Long, delicate fingers released their hold in John’s hair and trailed along his jawline as the creature moved in front of him, standing like a master above his pet. 

“You lied to me, John,” Sherlock said, tilting his head to the side. 

John mirrored the movement but said nothing. His thoughts were muffled, lost in the fog. He opened his mouth, intending to respond, but couldn’t find the words. He couldn’t find  _ any _ words, in fact, and so his mouth hung open until he gave up and let it snap shut. 

Sherlock held out his hand, curling his index finger towards him. John rose effortlessly to his feet as if pulled up by puppetry strings, blue eyes staring without blinking at Sherlock while he waited. 

“Stand,” Sherlock commanded, and John did.

“Now,” he added, dropping his hand to his side. “Speak.”

John gasped and wheezed, finally in control of his mouth and lungs again. He struggled to keep his breathing even, letting the cool winter air flood his body while his chest heaved. Thoughts began stringing themselves together again, reconnecting as the fog cleared from his head. He stared at Sherlock, wanting to do a million things and yet doing none of them. 

“Sherlock,” he finally whispered. “Whaur is Molly?”

The creature blinked leisurely, his opaque white eyes travelling up and down the length of John’s body. He finally waved his hand in response, dismissing the question entirely. “You  _ want _ to be here,” he commented. 

“Whaur is Molly?” John repeated, keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face. 

“You  _ came _ when I called.”

“Sherlock,” John said firmly. “Whaur is--”

“She doesn’t matter!” Sherlock shouted, losing his temper. The snow around his feet melted immediately as a shockwave exploded out from him, rattling the frozen trees together. John tensed, but didn’t falter as he stared at the enraged creature in front of him. “You don’t even  _ know _ her, John!”

“It doesnae matter,” John disagreed quietly, shaking his head. “She's dain naethin' tae ye, Sherlock. Lit 'er gang.” 

Raising his pale, bony hand, Sherlock flicked his fingers at John, pulling his body taut as if spreading him on a rack. Drawing himself up to full height, he stalked over to the captivated man and towered over him. 

“You will stay with me this time, John. No more tricks,” he growled as he leaned close, his breath tickling John’s cheek. His expression softened as he inhaled his scent, leaning his cheek against his beard. “You are lonely,” he murmured, nuzzling under the man’s ear. “I’ve  _ seen _ it.”

Blood racing in his veins at the creature’s proximity, John let his eyelids slide shut, sighing. His arms dropped back down to his sides, shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Ah am,” he admitted. 

“You can’t live with  _ them _ .”

John shook his head. He thought of the looks in the market, the way the people seemed to shrink away from him as he walked through the aisles. If he could help it, he avoided going into town no more than monthly. His heart sunk in his chest, thudding low and sad at the bottom of his ribs until he thought it might stutter and stop entirely. He wished it would. It would be easier than this.

“Stay,” Sherlock purred, his hands coming to rest on John’s hips. He dropped his head down to rest on John’s shoulder, kissing the tender skin at the side of his neck. Goosebumps covered him, chills running up and down the length of his spine while his chest clenched in response.

John stilled. His thoughts chased each other like wild dogs, yapping and snarling as they fought for dominance. There was no easy answer, not to this. It was misery regardless, though he had assumed at this point that he was destined to live a miserable life, so this wasn’t much of a revelation.

Until--

“Ye arenae controllin' me,” he muttered, drawing back far enough that he could look down at the creature wrapped around his torso. “Why?” Suspicion flared in his voice--perhaps this was a trick, another one of the ways the folk from the Wood entranced mortals like himself.

Sherlock stiffened, then rose to his full, formidable height. Looking down his nose at John, he snarled, “I could.”

“Och aye, but ye arenae,” John argued, testing. 

“ **_John_ ** ,” Sherlock growled, his face darkening. 

All at once the mist overtook the man, filling the space behind his eyes and obscuring everything he might have said or thought. It seeped into the corners of his mind, layering on top of itself until he was drowning beneath it. A soft, warm feeling spread from his core to his limbs, fuzzy and comfortable. 

And then, the darkness came.

* * *

_ “We lay here for years or for hours _

_ Thrown here or found _

_ To freeze or to thaw _

_ So long we become the flowers _

_ Two corpses we were _

_ Two corpses I saw _

_ And they'd find us in a week _

_ When the weather gets hot _

_ After the insects have made their claim _

_ I'd be home with you _

_ I'd be home with you…” _

_ -Hozier _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking time to read! I appreciate all kudos and comments. Find me on tumblr @Arcwin1.


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